Ebb tide nd-14

by Ричард Вудмен

  The wind had steadied now, a topsail breeze which, in the lee of the Longsand, drove Kestrel homewards with inspiriting speed. Drinkwater forgot his exhaustion in the joy of handling the little cutter and for a few moments scarcely thought about her pursuers until the anxious looks of the men on deck again drew his attention to them. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

  The two enemy luggers were closer together now and were setting more sail, clear evidence that they were determined to overhaul Kestrel before she made it into Harwich harbour.

  'They must know of the quality of our passengers,' he muttered grimly, for this was surely no mere retribution for the death of a handful of hussars or British insolence in the entrance to Calais. And then he recalled the man who had watched them from the extremity of the Calais jetty, and wondered who or what he was and whether he had anything to do with this determined pursuit.

  Drinkwater had hoped that he might lure the larger of the two luggers over the Longsand so that she ran aground, and in doing so he had let Kestrel sag off to the west a little. With the flood tide now running into the Thames estuary from the north, he had to regain that deliberately sacrificed northing, sailing across the tide while the French luggers already had that advantage from their forced diversion round the seawards extremity of the shoal. There was, however, a further obstacle behind which he would feel safe. If he could hire the luggers on to the Stone Banks, to the east of the Naze, he could shoot north into Harwich through the Medusa Channel.

  The idea filled him with fresh hope and he laid a course for the Sunk alarm vessel, lying to her great chain mooring and flying the red ensign of the Trinity House. She lay ahead, with her bow canted slightly across the tide under the influence of the strong southerly breeze. She was a fortuitous seamark and one which the Frenchmen might even attack if they were frustrated in their pursuit of Kestrel.

  For another twenty minutes they ran on, the luggers still gaining slowly, though now heeled under a vast press of canvas. As the range closed, Drinkwater called the crew to their stations for action and Frey, blear-eyed and looking far worse than if he had never slept, staggered out on deck, followed by the boy Charles.

  'Send the lad below,' Drinkwater began, but it was too late. The boy had seen the luggers and glimpsed the large tricolours, and his face betrayed his fear.

  'It's to be a damned close-run thing, Frey. We might make it into the Medusa Channel, we might not, but I think you had better...'

  'You keep the helm, sir, now you have it. I'll send two men aft to trim sheets, then I'll fight the ship,' and without another word Frey swung away to see to the loading of the swivels and the mustering of the men with their small arms.

  Drinkwater leaned on the tiller and, as Jago and a man named Cornford came aft, he ordered a little weight taken in on the main-sheet. Kestrel dashed through the water and a gleam of sun came through the clouds to turn to silver the spray driving away from the lee bow, making a brief rainbow with its appearance. Looking astern, terns dipped unconcernedly in their wake, while a fulmar quartered the sea in a single swoop. The fulmar caught Drinkwater's eye, swept down and upwards, away across the dark, predatory shape of the luggers' sails, absorbed only in its ceaseless quest for food and quite unaware of the grim game of life and death being played by the men in the three vessels below.

  The nearer and larger of the two luggers was driving a bow wave before her that rose almost under her gammon iron. Her sails were stiff as boards and, even at the distance of a mile, Drinkwater could see the three great yards which spread her sails bending under the strain. If only, he thought, if only one would carry away.

  But they stood, as did the lighter topsail yards above them, and the Frenchman loomed ever larger as the distance between them shrank and their courses converged. Drinkwater stared forward again and saw the tall lantern mast of the Sunk alarm vessel also growing in size as they rapidly closed the distance. He was aiming Kestrel's bowsprit for the bow of the anchored vessel, hoping to draw his pursuer in close enough for him to lose his nerve and bear away again as the tide swept them down on to the alarm vessel. It was an old trick, learned, like so much else he had used recently, in the buoy-yachts a lifetime ago, to determine the position of the alarm vessel's anchor by sailing up-tide of her, when any prudent mariner would pass down-tide, under her stern.

  Forward, Frey turned and stared aft, suddenly alert to the danger into which they stood. Seeing Drinkwater confidently aware of how close they were going to pass the alarm vessel, he relaxed and made some remark to the hands who looked aft and laughed. But Drinkwater was too tense even to notice. Every muscle he could command was strained with the business of holding Kestrel on her course without deviation, gauging the exact strength of the lateral shift of the racing hull under the influence of the tide, yet making allowances for the quartering sea which created a gentle see-sawing yaw. He could see the hull of the Sunk now and the men lining her rail as the three vessels closed, and at that moment, the first gun was fired. The shot passed across Kestrels deck, right under the boom and out over the port side, to be lost somewhere in the choppy seas on their port beam.

  'God's bones!' Drinkwater blasphemed, as the wind of the shot's passing distracted him. The next second he was aware of a ragged cheer from the crew of the alarm vessel and the rash of a red hull and slimy green weed along a waterline that passed in a blur as the cutter dashed across the tide and was suddenly under the Sunk's high bow. Then there seemed a number of cries of alarm, of crashes and the thud of another gun, of a great rushing to starboard and more shots, of pistols and the starboard swivels all barking at once in a moment of packed incident in which he took no part, rooted as he was to the heavy tiller. All he saw as they tore past the alarm vessel was the great iron chain of the Sunk stretching down to the anchor in the seabed below them. Then they had run beyond the Sunk's bow and he relaxed, looking round to watch the strength of the tide as it bore them sideways and as the apparent motion made the alarm vessel seem to cross their own stern. He looked round for their nearer pursuer. She had been unable to pass up-tide of the alarm vessel and had been compelled to haul her wind and duck under the Sunk's stern. In doing so she had passed so close that she had exposed herself to one of the alarm vessel's carronades, mounted as a warning gun but loaded with an extempore charge of debris. The discharge of old nails and broken glass tore through the lugger's straining foresail as she bore up too much. As a consequence, her stern brushed the alarm vessel's hull and her mizen snagged it Her after rigging was torn away, dragging the whole mizen, mast, sail and yard with it. As she broke away from the Sunk, the lugger left white canvas fluttering from the stem of the alarm vessel and with it her tricoloured ensign. Of the second lugger, all that could be seen was the peak of her sails to the south-east as she reached across the wind, anxiously watching the fate of her consort.

  'Harden in those sheets!' Drinkwater roared, pushing the tiller with all his might. 'Stand by to tack ship!'

  Instantly Frey divined Drinkwater's intentions. 'Prepare those starboard swivels! Get those port swivels mounted over here!'

  Kestrel dipped into the wind with a flogging of her sails and paid off on the other tack. Runners were set up and let go, the sheets shifted and slackened as Kestrel spun to port, swung off the wind and ran back towards her late tormentor. Confusion reigned on the deck of the chasse marée as Kestrel passed on the opposite tack, spattering her with small-arms fire and raking her with the swivels.

  'Here, Jago!' Drinkwater tossed the seaman one of his pistols and Jago aimed and fired it into the throng of men struggling to bring their lugger under command again. Seeing the pitiful sight and the execution done to the lugger's decks, Drinkwater noted the mainsail had ripped badly so that she was almost immobilized.

  'How I wish we had one decent gun,' be lamented to himself, but Frey had had all four swivels discharge into the enemy as they passed and the carnage was bad enough. The second lugger was a mile away now, and stood steadily south-eastwards. D
rinkwater pursued her for a while and had the satisfaction of chasing her from the field before he turned back towards their erstwhile enemy. The larger chaste marée was a sorry sight, her mainsail down on deck. And though the main topsail was being hoisted and she might yet run off before the wind, it appeared she was hors de combat. Inspiration struck Drinkwater. 'Where's young Charles, Jago?'

  Jago called out in French and Drinkwater saw the lad raise his head from beside the boat on her chocks amidships where he had been huddled, watching the action.

  'Tell him to find out this fellow's name, Jago, and then ask if he surrenders.' Drinkwater raised his voice. The rest of you prepare to fire and to scandalize the mainsail and heave to.'

  As they came dancing up under the overcast and pointed their little guns at the lugger, the boy called upon her to surrender. The response was a torrent of French at which the lad stiffened and Jago merely laughed.

  'Well, damn you, what does the bugger say?' Drinkwater prompted Jago, who addressed a few words to Charles.

  'Elle est la Mathilde Drouot de Calais, M'sieur. Le maître est mort, et...' The boy shrugged and looked appealingly at Jago.

  'She's the Mathilde Drouot of Calais, sir, the master is killed and her mate says he is compelled to surrender to pig-butchers. He has had five men killed besides the master, and eight wounded. One is very bad and he asked if we had a surgeon.'

  Drinkwater pulled a face. 'That is unfortunate, I had no idea the swivels were so effective ...'

  Jago shook his head. 'I don't think it was our swivels, sir. I reckon it was the men on the alarm vessel firing broken glass bottles at 'em from a large-bore carronade mounted on the quarter.'

  'I see. We may take the prize, but not the credit.'

  'Aye, I reckon so, sir. 'Tis against the laws of war, the Frog yonder says, sir.'

  Drinkwater ignored the objection. 'Tell the Mathilde Drouot to pitch all his ramrods overboard, then head for Harwich. Tell him to stay in close contact under my guns. If he tries to make a run for it, I shall sweep his decks with glass bottles myself. I think we have a few down below, don't we, Mr Frey?'

  'A few, sir, but not many.'

  'Then let us hope the matter is not put to the test, eh?

  Captain Scanderbeg was somewhat ruffled to be woken early next morning by a lieutenant demanding accommodation for prisoners-of-war in the town bridewell.

  'And who, sir, are you, pray?' he asked, emerging dishevelled from his chamber in the Three Cups.

  'Lieutenant Frey, sir, of the hired cutter Kestrel. I have some twenty-seven prisoners and several need a surgeon, sir.'

  Scanderbeg frowned. 'Kestrel she's Captain Drinkwater's yacht, ain't she?'

  'Yes, sir, under my command. We fought an engagement off the Sunk yesterday afternoon and took a French National lugger, sir. We anchored last night on the southern end of the Shelf and...'

  'And here you are disturbing me, lieutenant...'

  'Frey, sir.'

  Scanderbeg sighed, then said mildly, 'I recall you now. Well, damn you, sir, you shall wait until I have shaved and broken my fast and then perhaps we shall find somewhere for your confounded prisoners. Don't you know I have an army to embark?'

  'So I see, sir,' said Frey politely, withdrawing. 'I do beg your pardon. I had no idea it took quite so long.'

  Scanderbeg stared at the retreating young man, then he scratched his head and burst out laughing. 'By God, sir, neither did I!'

  PART THREE

  Ebb Tide

  It is said that of all deaths, drowning is the least unpleasant.

  The Oar

  14 July 1843

  Captain Poulter leaned over the railing at the port extremity of his bridge. His agitation was extreme, though he fought to conceal it as he waited patiently for the wreckage of the boat to be recovered, along with the survivors clinging on to it.

  He counted the bobbing heads; two remained missing. One was almost certainly old Sir Nathaniel and he half-hoped the other might be Drew, but he could see the Elder Brother now and realized the other was Mr Quier, Vestal's second mate.

  Poulter willed Forester to hasten the recovery, though he knew full well that the mate and his boat's crew were doing their utmost. When at last the matter was concluded, he shouted for half speed ahead.

  'We have everyone except Sir Nathaniel and Peter Quier, sir,' Forester reported when he eventually came up on the bridge.

  'Yes, I know.' The two men looked at each other. They were both thinking their luck had run out, but neither wished to voice the apprehension. 'We must keep on searching, Mr Forester.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'Quier has a chance, I suppose ...' 'Let us hope so.'

  Drinkwater was not so cold now and thought he had stopped shivering. It did not seem to matter that the water rose above his head. There was a simple inevitability about things; an acceptance. All would be well, and all would be well ...

  It was almost a disappointment when, without effort, almost in spite of himself, he encountered the oar again and found that he was breathing, his head clear of the water with the arch of the sky above him. But now it hurt to breathe; almost as much as it hurt not to...

  CHAPTER 14

  Last Casts of the Dice

  1815-1820

  Edward was buried next to Hortense in the grounds of the old priory and with him Drinkwater consigned a great anxiety. Once he might have relied upon the protection of Lord Dungarth, but after the Earl's death, had Ostroff's true identity or past crime of murder been exposed, along with his own part in Edward's escape, he scarcely dared to think what would have happened to Elizabeth and the children. That Edward had rendered signal service to the British Crown at Tilsit might not have weighed in his favour so long after the event, and now, in any case, the war had finally ended and with it those expedient measures behind which wrongs were obscured.

  Nine weeks after the return of Kestrel from the French coast, England learned of the debacle of Waterloo, the quondam Emperor's flight to the west coast of France and his surrender to Captain Maitland of the Bellerophon. Thereafter, the presence of Napoleon aboard ship in Torbay attracted widespread interest before he was transferred into the Northumberland and carried south, to exile on distant St Helena. In the months that followed, Elizabeth persuaded her husband to fill in those gaps in his personal history that the loss of his early diaries during the sinking of the Royal George had caused by writing down his memoirs. She considered her husband's service to be of some interest to their children and, while she expected him to be deliberately reticent concerning some of the incidents in his life, she knew sufficient to want his sacrifices, and by implication her own, not to go unknown by their family. There was also a more practical consideration, and in initiating her husband's task, Elizabeth demonstrated the depth of her own understanding.

  For Drinkwater the process brought back many memories. So daily an accompaniment of his life had the war become that the absence of it seemed to remove the main purpose of existence itself, and yet he learned that for Elizabeth and his household, the war had been but a distant backdrop to their own lives, lives which were more intimately connected with the ebb and flow of the seasons than the tides, of ploughing and planting, of reaping and harrowing, of tending livestock and mending fences, of buying and selling, of butter-making and fruit-bottling. Drinkwater was at first suspicious of Elizabeth's motives, suspecting her of wanting him occupied and not interfering in the business of the estate, but he quickly realized that he was guilty of a mean misjudgement. Elizabeth was only too acutely aware that the end of the war and the end of active service would confront Drinkwater himself with numerous regrets and frustrations, and that while he might say he wished to be left in peace, indeed he might desire it most sincerely, nevertheless such a desire would in time wane and, in the manner of all ageing men, he would wish for the excitements of youth and maturity. A period of reflection and evaluation would, she astutely hoped, reconcile him to a gentler, less tempestuous life.r />
  In the first year of peace, Drinkwater bent to his task and found that it did indeed ease his transition from active command to the life of a country gentleman. He had no knowledge of either livestock or agriculture and eschewed the company of farming men, not out of snobbery but out of ignorance of their ways and their conversation. They were as great an oddity to him as was he to them. There were fewer expressions more accurate or appropriate than that of being a fish out of water. Rather than try, as many of his naval contemporaries did, to join the squirearchy, he retained the habit of command, was content with his own company and, when in need of male companionship, sought that of his friend Frey. Frey's expectation of advancement had terminated with the sudden end of the war and he had returned to painting, enjoying a continuing success. A solicitous husband, he nevertheless slipped away from time to time to laze afloat aboard Kestrel for a day or two. It seemed impossible that on these very decks had once lain the body of a mysterious Russian officer, or that they had carried off the Baroness and her children from the teeth of a French hussar detachment in the very yacht that lay at anchor beneath the hanging woods on the River Orwell.

  Drinkwater received an occasional letter, written in painful and stilted English, from the young Charles Montholon. He had acquired a certain importance because his uncle, General Montholon, had been appointed to the small suite which accompanied to St Helena the man the British cabinet had meanly insisted was to be known as 'General Bonaparte'. This tenuous connection had, despite the young man's fugitive situation during the Hundred Days, encouraged an ambition to join the French army on the assumption that the glories of the past might be replicated in the future. Drinkwater sincerely hoped they would not; a world riven by battles of Napoleonic proportions was not one that he wished his own son to inhabit, but reading Charles Montholon's correspondence, it occurred to Drinkwater that his own generation had lived their lives in an extraordinary period which, seen through the younger man's eyes, was already vested with a vast and romantic significance. Not the least thread in the fabric of this great myth was the distant exile of the dispossessed emperor.